Ashes and Dust
by Sybilline Vane
Summary: She was only a shadow of his past, an irreplaceable one, but the past will always be nothing but ashes and dust. -Talon X Katarina, oneshot.


**A/N: First Fanfiction ever wrote! Didn't quite turn out as I wanted it to, but I'm pretty satisfied with it, and hope that you will as well.**

 **Sorta lacks a real plot or anything, really just focused on exploring possibilities of Kat and Talon's relationship. Mostly Talon POV. Slightly AU though generally follows old lore.**

 **Please leave a review if you like this or even if you don't. I'm still trying out this english fanfiction thing and would really appriciate advice of any kind!**

 **Warnings: Major Character Death, some description of violence though I wouldn't deem it too bad.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Kat, Talon or any other characters that appear in this story, though I'd totally love to. :(**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

·

 _For the past is the past_

 _Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust._

 _·_

* * *

Cassiopeia Du Couteau never admitted him as family. Talon knew by just reading how her face fell whenever he was given the same treatment as the daughters, or by her choice of words and tone that reeked with condescension whenever she talked to him. He knew all what she spoke behind his back, to the general or to her sister, and he cared nothing for them. If she was always going to treat him more like an outsider and servant, so be it.

Katarina was a different story.

Though also beautiful and of high birth, she was much unlike her sister. Acceptance came easy to her, or at least, easier in a different sense.

All it took was harsh defeat right in her face. She was easy prey to Talon: much too rash and too careless, tending to be wild with offence yet leaving herself as an open target, her eyes and body betraying where the next hit was to land. Yes, she was agile and skilled with the blades, that much he would willingly admit. Better than any girl he had met. But still, she was weak, and whatever resistance she put up was next to useless in front of him. Easily he got her down on the ground with his weapon pinned to her neck, declaring victory.

In response, she struggled, fought, slashed and squirmed on the ground, every bit as fierce as a wolf pup entangled within a hunter's trap, until he was forced to loosen his hold. She then whipped her hand with force and slapped him right on the cheek, leaving a mark that was slightly reddening. Slightly taken aback, he surveyed the girl once more but did not let go.

'I surrender, street rat, get off me!' she spat with a venomous glare, seeing that the slap was not efficient, and her eyes raged with emerald fire that bore right into his. So it was merely a move of aggravation out of her wounded pride, then. With this thought Talon quietly obeyed and took his hands off of the General's eldest daughter, stood up and dusted himself off, while she did the same.

He had already turned his back and was starting to leave towards the door when a near-unnoticeable swoosh came from behind. Instinctively he blocked it with his elbow, sending a jolt of pain up the arm, and turned to see Katarina with her training knife in hand once again, lounging with a furious light sparkling beneath a sea of jade-colored waters.

Her second attempt turned out much like the first. And her reaction much the same.

Not until he thrust the blunt-edged training knife to her throat five, six, seven times, leaving a light bruise that marked each of her attempts at fighting back, did she finally truly admit defeat. Eventually she had to bow down to the fact that she was the less skilled one between the two, though he could see it plain that it was a torturous decision for her to make.

After that she quickly showed him the same amount of respect she had for Cassiopeia, which was to say, still not much. But it was respect, and despite how hard her pride was wounded, she respected those who overpowered her because they deserved it.

They were endlessly similar in this way.

* * *

There was no person in Valoran that knew Katarina's strengths and flaws better than Talon. Not even Marcus Du Couteau, her own father, did. He was the one who carefully memorized every single weakness of hers and used them skillfully during their innumerable rounds of sparring, so that even with her incredibly fast improvement over the years he was not beaten.

With time old problems of hers faded away and new ones appeared, though forever reducing in numbers; yet she had one flaw, a fatal one, which he could always manipulate to his advantage. Whilst he had learnt, ever since the betrayal of a childhood friend, to wear a mask of expressionlessness on his face and a mask of apathy over his heart, Katarina never did.

Her emotions ran freely and passionately, showing every thought on her face, forever reaching to extremes that risks overflowing her sharp mind, causing her to be driven by fierce hatred, bloodlust, pride…causing her to be predictable, and vulnerable. Countless times he was able to defeat her easily by making use of her rash decisions under anger; countless times he warned her against this. But she did not hear. Or if she did, she failed to change.

It was so when he met her and still is when the General deemed her suitable for a first mission.

It should have been evitable. Anything could have been done in order to prevent it; even by sending another to watch by her could have done the job. But it did happen, for she was sixteen and eager and _alone_ , with freshly polished blades, wild excitement and little patience. To prove that she would not fail the name of Du Couteau, that was all which occupied her mind, and killed whatever logic residing in it.

He was not there to see the assassination, but from her experience he knew what it would have looked like. Silently and swiftly she would pounce on the unsuspecting prey, quickly finishing the job, and leaving not a single trace behind. Then she would have gone in smug self-fulfillment, ignoring that her orders, her mission, was still unattended to.

Consequences were dire. Her behavior costed the Noxian army many men, the house of Du Couteau a black spot on its reputation, and herself nearly an eye. All three gradually recovered, and all three were scarred, as a memoir that many would refuse to recall.

It was the first time and the last for her to commit such a mistake. Talon knew so, for her brilliant passions and emotions that costed her this failure also whipped herself. Guilt, unsatisfaction, anger—all of these would follow her like shadows because of this one event, and the mark will be forever there to remind her so.

It did not matter that the black scar, an occurrence of her own rashness and eagerness to prove her worth, marred the face she wore in his memory. She was still beautiful, in a more deadly way that reminded him constantly that Katarina was not her sister. It marked the disappearance of the girl whom he fought with, every day for numerous years, transforming her into a woman—no, into an _assassin_.

She has grown with the scar, a trace left by ashes and dust of the past, and where it survives dark memories shall follow.

* * *

Before that and ever since, he felt that she was…obsessed…with her blades, with training, with becoming stronger. Whenever Talon did not spar with her, she trained on her own with wooden dummies that putted up very little resistance, and thus did not satisfy her. Even so, for hours and hours she would continue this dull ritual, repeating the simplest of movements a thousand times over until she could flawlessly produce it with her eyes closed. Until her body was pushed to the point of exhaustion did she pause, and found herself the necessary nourishment to continue with this harsh routine, but always returned just as quick as she would leave. Sometimes, being a light sleeper, he would hear the clear ring of metal on metal or the crashes that signalized blades being buried into wood, coming from the training room located right next to the guest room he took up, and when he went to see it was always the youthful figure of Katarina that was there.

He knew that she never trained with this determination before. Not once. She was training to wash away the shame of her failure, to claim back the pride that she lost. He knew. And he cared little for how or why the daughter of the General decided to sharpen her skills, but only when they will clash again for mock fights, and when they do how he shall defeat her.

She never kept him waiting. Whenever his presence was noted by her—which could have taken her a few seconds to full hours, depending on the intenseness of her focus—she would invite him to spar.

No, invite was the wrong word to use. Request. Order. Challenge. These were words more fitting to her tone and piercing emerald eyes, her eagerness and spirit, and her incredibly annoying personality. He would always take up those challenges nonetheless, for he promised the General that he will also obey his daughters.

She never won, despite her desperate efforts to claim victory. Every type of tactic he had seen her use: faking defeat in front of him, acting wounded and attempting to play with his compassion, deliberately giving him advantage in order to lure him into traps, springing behind him while he was training alone. None worked. Always their sparring ended with her being dead if he pressed any harder on the blade, and if the blade had an edge.

She never won and never stopped trying.

* * *

Sometimes, very occasionally, when he slipped in but Katarina was so concentrated on her own training that she did not notice him, he would cross his arms and lean against the wall, silent as a shadow, and watch her.

It was these times when he would leave behind the flimsy hostility that they possessed towards each other, and muse upon how they fought so differently, despite being taught and trained under the same man. He fought in ways that were simple, not brutal, but his style was always just enough and no more. If one cut was deep enough to take a life, he would stop. There was no beauty in his fighting, only the deftest and cleanest of moves, a fighting style carved for survival.

Katarina, however…her movements, though surging with strength, was wildly beautiful and graceful in its own way, as if blades were only a silvery and deadly extension of her arms; her footfalls, sure and light, were always placed with unique rhythm and careful planning, seemingly choreographed instead of improvised on the spot. The sheet of crimson that fell behind her flowed naturally with her body, and amazed him endlessly as they never entangled with her speed and precision. When she spun like a whirlwind, sending knives in every direction with a speed too fast for his eyes even to capture, her hair swirled like waves when the sea is troubled. And her eyes, sharp as a hawk's and cold as turquoise, glimmering with the light of a predator while smoldering with fires too hot for such a frosty shade of emerald, seemed to capture everything and reflect it perfectly within. Only when watching her did Talon understood why the art of their combat was called dancing, for it truly is while she was the performer.

When they clashed, steel against steel during daily sparring routines, he never was able to notice it; but when he was a spectator rather than the participant, it was obvious as daylight.

He was not blind to see that Katarina Du Couteau, being the young, rash, stubborn, irksome and persistent girl that she was, was beautiful as a killer.

* * *

They worked together, occasionally, when there were difficulties that one can rarely overcome alone, or when multiple targets must be found and ridden of within a short period of time. Mostly they did their missions by themselves, disappearing into the shadows and returning with dawn and fresh blood, and never once did their blades fail the High Command of Noxus. Blade and shadow, shadow and blade, they were equally deadly.

During those rare chances of cooperation, they would exchange few words but the necessary, but it was more than enough. It was a difficult change for Talon to adjust to—having a _person_ behind your back instead of a firm stone wall that will never stab you—but even with a past that screamed to him trust was fatal, he knew that Katarina was one of the few that he could lay his life in her hands; perhaps even the only one that he dared to do so with.

But Katarina will never betray him.

After years of being with her, staying with her under the same roof, exchanging slashes and strikes with her, taunting her while training and teasing her at the dinner-table, he knew how her mind thinks and her heart beats. Despite being a Noxian, where deceit was seen as a form of strength in itself, despite that she used endless tricks and lies in futile attempts to overpower him, beneath the cover of a cutting tongue and endless scorn lies loyalty. Fiercely and utterly protective to those she has sworn to, she would never harm her father's men.

And she will never harm him, for he is Talon. They bonded well with mutual understanding on such missions, knowing that the survival of the other was crucial to their own, and how having a pair of eyes watching out for you will always be better than a patch of dirt. During those times when they have the chance to operate together, kill together, and rely on each other, they will grant temporal mutual trust.

A trust that lasted much longer and stronger than he ever expected or intended.

For still, ashes of the past follow and haunt him, whispering distrust, crying fear and hatred and solitude. He cannot fight with another by his side, not for forever, and he cannot lay down his guard even if it was Katarina that will guard him. It was impossible. Not unwillingness that held him back…but because he simply is unable to.

He was submerged in the ashes of shadowy years, choking, alone, afraid, and has been for so long that the blinding light above is no longer remembered to his eyes.

* * *

Talon found her, wet and dripping and cold in the dead of the night, crimson hair drenched to the last strand, shivering in her tight leathers that never stood as much protection in the rain. She had pressed herself to the cobblestone wall that towered tens of meters above, with fire lighted in turrets despite the pouring shower from the sky, separating the city-state of Noxus to whatever lies beyond. Upon noticing his appearance from the shadows, her green eyes flickered and harshly snapped at him, 'go back.'

He made no reply, but crossed his arms and stood facing her with no expression, allowing the summer storm wash over him as it did her. Her hands went to her sides, where the leather belt around her waist carried two of the larger daggers, and with slow, cautious moves she slipped them out into her hand.

He stood weaponless and defenseless, with no armor whatsoever in front of her, and did not back a step.

'Go back to the mansion. Cass needs somebody with her; she's likely to be crying her eyes out. Go to _her_.' She growled, raising the graceful blade intimidatingly, glaring at him as she used to years ago.

'She will not want a servant's comfort.' He answered in his usual monotone, unmoving.

Unsatisfied with this answer, she raised one eyebrow and scoffed. The rain now wetted his garments too, the usual dark-colored hooded clothing and cloak, and they hung heavy on him, the weight being something he was not quite accustomed to. But he did not leave, and she did not spit another word towards him.

They were forced back into stalemate again.

On other parts of Valoran such storms came and left quickly, leaving little trace behind but a world thoroughly washed, but here in Noxus whatever bad weather tended to always be persistent. This rain will not stop until at least dawn, and judging from when he noticed her slipping out the doors, she had been in this rain for hours. And the rain…the rain was cold for summer nights, more than he would have thought, and this chilliness clung onto fabric and seeped through skin.

He frowned slightly, a motion too minute that she would not have been able to notice. She was shivering, plainly, though trying with great effort to conceal it from his eyes, but it was evident that she was in not the best of conditions. It would be a most unfortunate time for her to fall sick.

'Go home, Katarina, and sooth her. I will continue this search for you.'

For the months that passed, Marcus Du Couteau's whereabouts were unknown. He did not attend High Command and did not return home to the Du Couteau mansion, left no whispers in the streets and made no appearances under the watchful eyes of Noxian spies.

Still General in name, all his duties passed on for her daughters to perform. She buried herself beneath mountains of paperwork that she utterly hated, even sacrificing training time and sparring sessions to do so. In the night she would quietly leave, to search the streets of any possible trace that her father might have returned, only to return every night with no progress.

Yet she never has and never will show a single sign of weakness because she _had_ to be strong, for Du Couteau's reputation and for Cassiopeia that was already breaking down. The weight that rested on her shoulders was too grave to be set down, even for the slightest moment, and she had no other choice but to grit her teeth and bear it.

He tries to lighten her ever growing burden: taking on assassination tasks, accompanying her during her nightly trips, doing the little that he was able of. But there was too much that only someone of her birth and social status could do, that Talon was powerless to offer help to. And though she never showed it on her face, the sagged eyelids and dark circles beneath betrayed the situation of her body.

She was breaking as well, maybe not emotionally, but she was breaking.

'And why should I listen to you?' she put emphasis on the word 'you', emphasis filled with a scorn that he knew she did not mean wholeheartedly, but her blade was lowered though her gaze still wary.

His eyes flickered and allowed the silence to settle between them for the moment, a silence that was unbreakable despite the rain was roaring beside his ears. He wanted to find the General, of course. He too longed to have Marcus Du Couteau, the man who spared his life and owns his loyalty, back. But it was time…for those useless attempts in the night to stop. They will get nowhere by chasing after gutter rats for information.

'Let the rain cool your mind, Katarina, and you will understand yourself.' Eventually he answered, tiredly, knowing that she was no fool too blind to see the truth. It was simply the anger and pain that boiled inside her which shut her senses off from seeing clearly, 'for now, go. I will bring news back if there is anything to be found.'

She stood silently and stared at him in a stance of unrelenting, lips slightly quivering as if preparing to say something more to rebuke him, but came up with no words. He patiently waited with her, until finally, with one final glare, she bended to him the thousandth time, and stormed off wordlessly into the shadows, disappearing quickly behind a veil of rain.

Instinctively he thought that the shimmering trails left behind by water on her face may not be solely results of rain. Shaking his head, he let the notion pass, and hurried down along the wall, navigating the maze of streets easily like how he always did as a child.

Soon this downpour will cleanse Noxus of stale summer dust, he found himself musing, or rather, hoping. Soon doors to a fresh day will be opened, scattering the past like cinders in wind.

* * *

The news broke Cassiopeia immediately. She threw herself into the embrace of her sister, choking out her disbelief between sobs and whimpers that she attempted to suppress. With a grim expression he took the slip of paper from the young boy who bought it, read it again with careful attention, and then quietly told the boy to leave. The messenger did so hastily and without question.

His eyes then fell on Katarina, and held out the notice towards her wordlessly, the light in his eyes hardening. The red-headed assassin was fighting back tears as well, he noticed. Her eyes shimmered with a layer of water within, but she blinked furiously in determination to hold it to herself, pressing her lips firmly into an expressionless line, and took over the slip of paper in one hand while holding Cassiopeia with the other. Quietly she read through lines of ink, and then crumpled it into a ball and allowed the wrinkled paper to fall to the ground soundless.

So it was announced. Marcus Du Couteau's sudden disappearance would be concluded as his death, for it was only normal for an assassin to die unknowingly in the darkness, and there has been no word of him for far too long. All search parties sent out, either by the High Command or the pleading of his daughter, will be called back in preparation for the coming war. And Jericho Swain will succeed his place as General. Katarina will no longer be obliged with those duties.

It was a message long expected, though that did not ease the heaviness of it a slightest bit.

He watched silently as she stiffly murmurs the soft words that she will only use to her little sister, stroking her hair and providing what little comfort that she was able to, midst all the chaos and pain and loss that all three had to endure. Wordlessly he watched Cassiopeia sob and slowly crouched to pick the announcement up and stuff it hastily into his pocket, then left with footsteps soundless as a cat's, not bothering to check whether they noticed him leave or not.

The same pain that they were going through also applied to him. But he knew much better than to seek the caress of others, for almost always there will be a knife embedded in it. He was not the one that will offer warmth either. The only way that he can and have ever known to deal with the emotions that went to extremes and was threatening to tear him apart was in solitude, and that was what he sought.

He wondered how Katarina would be dealing with her pain. Perhaps wearing it out with training, or staying with Cassiopeia and comforting her while maintaining a strong shell for her, or locking herself up to digest it in loneliness like he was; but whatever she was doing, it did not involve him in it.

Somehow a slight disturbance passed his mind, though fading away with the same speed that it came.

Time passed from day to dusk without any disturbance to his unproductivity in his room. No sounds, no voices could be heard, not the racket that servants usually made by just being around or the familiar purr of weapons grazing each other ringed in his ears. It was as if he was truly alone, with no signs that showed any other living being in the huge mansion of Du Couteau's. Nobody came and he did not leave, and he was perfectly fine being so.

He was alone, cut off from the rest of the world to fight this torturous fire that scorched him from within, praying silently that it will not burn him to ashes.

It was a day of grievance for them all.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, it was Katarina's sharp rapping that marked the end of his lonely mourning.

She stood in the doorway, fully clothed in her combat leathers, with belts of throwing knives and daggers strapped tightly on her figure. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows sown along the mansion's long corridors, giving her hair a dark shade with silvery colors strewn between, and as always her eyes glimmered with light. Only this time it was a cold fire that burned inside, and her lips were twisted into a contort expression that he never seen her make before.

Talon was still clad in his usual garments, which he did not bother to change out of, when he answered the door. Wearily she eyed his clothing, than spoke in a harsh, quick pace, as if every syllable was meant to hurt instead of convey meaning.

'Come and train with me. Bring your usual blade. I'll wait for you there.'

With that she turned on her heels and stalked away without another word and without waiting for his reply. He kept his gaze transfixed on her, until it was impossible to make out the bright crimson of her hair and she became one silhouette in thousands, merging into the shadows, and was gone.

He turned and strapped the long, lethal weapon to his arm without questioning her decision, and silently surveyed the beautifully balanced armblade while it bathed in pale moonlight. Even after countless kills the edge stayed sharp and the steel clean and strong; this was a blade that never failed him and never will. But to use it in training…he slightly frowned at the thought, trying it out a few times just to see if he can stop a swipe just in time, but went down the direction towards the training rooms nonetheless, leaving the door unlatched behind.

As promised, she was waiting there, tapping impatiently on the handles of those slender knives which she kept dozens of. Without addressing each other they moved, both silent and agile, and started their dance immediately.

Nothing unlike all their past spars occurred, besides that sharp blades were used instead of blunt ones, and while they still aimed for necks and eyes and hearts the other could well be killed if the dodge came slightly late. It was dangerous, but they were too used to danger, to death, both on inflicting and receiving close calls, that this was like child's play. Except that they were no longer children.

There was no need for words to be exchanged, for the clash of steel spoke more for them than what any language could. Wordlessly they danced a dance of blades, with tight rhythm and a fast beat that would have been difficult for any other to keep up with, but both of them could grasp it easily. Always they have choreographed such dances to perfection, and never have their body failed to perform it.

For without Marcus Du Couteau, they were the best of Noxus, and their blades never faltered and never will.

But when they fought each other, the shadow overpowered the blade. It has always been so and this time it was no different: he had her pinned down, killing every possibility of resistance, and his blade pushed slightly above her sharp collarbones. Unlike the past, this time a thin line that marked a cut emerged from the skin, oozing soundlessly droplets of scarlet. He cursed himself inwardly for being so careless as to have harmed her, for nearly taking her life if he had stopped himself a second later, but he saw no fear or hatred in her jaded eyes.

Only emulation and eagerness burnt within, and before he could realize what occurred, cold steel has already found its way past his thinly-spun clothing, piercing a hole in the fabric and drawing only the smallest amount of blood possible from his abdomen.

He looked up to see the slight, rigid smile forming on the red-head's lips. Somehow he forced a tight smile back at her, the same type of expression as hers, one that supposedly meant happiness but revealed layers and layers of sorrow beneath only to those who could read it. Despite that his life would be in danger with one light thrust of her wrist, he loosened his hold slightly anyways, allowing her a chance to dust herself off for a next round.

And so their training continued.

It was only when the first strands of dawn's tender light broke through morning mist did they finally stop, with beads of sweat and pale, fresh wounds strewing both their skin. For the past twenty-four hours neither has slept, and tiredness claimed its victory eventually. Talon's body was already numb at the prickling pain that covered every inch of skin, and his mind halfway to dreamland already, but somehow he still managed to stay on his feet and watch silently as Katarina collected her blades from where she threw them. It was a long and tedious process, as throwing knives littered the floor and walls everywhere across the room, and every one had to be retrieved with care so to no bend the blade, since most were already embedded into wood.

Seeing that she was done with it, his gaze met with hers once more. In the momentary tranquility they did nothing more but surveying each other; it was one of the many habits that they cultivated after years of walking on the brink of death, risking their lives to take others', that after every successful mission they will spend a second just to check on the other assassin, in question and concern and congratulation.

Today this ritual was a moment of grief and condolence, and, in a way like never before…quiet comfort that they offered mutually to the other, because there was nobody else who would.

'…I need to check on Cassie now.' she broke their moment first, with her tone surprisingly soft and slightly wavering; it was the first time he ever heard her in such a voice. With a short paused, she asked tentatively, adverting her gaze, 'Will you mind...perhaps…to fix breakfast? I dismissed all of the household servants yesterday; without father's incomes, we might be quickly run down on money.'

It was an unexpected request, and the first time he ever heard her speak to him in a questioning instead of commanding tone. It made her sound…almost…like the girl he knew once, years ago, before their lives went spiraling towards hell.

He nodded in reply and turned to leave. A hesitant voice called out to him just as he was approaching the door, clear and steady, with a new edge to it that he never heard before.

'And…thank you.'

The pause that came between was long and tedious, and for the length of it he stopped every muscle completely, stiffening to stone. He was almost certain that it was nothing but a hallucination of his tired and hurting mind when her voice rang out again, almost completely foreign and unbeknownst to him, with every word rebounding off the walls and finding their way to his ears.

'…for coming to train with me. No, just…for being here.'

A small nod was all that he did to acknowledge her words. Without turning to give another glance, he hastily moved down the corridors, as if running away, just as he always did.

When all three of the last of Du Couteau's house met up for a solemn, heavy morning meal, nothing of the night was mentioned.

* * *

He hated admitting, but after being devoid of emotional undulation for years, he was terrible at coping with any sort of feeling that came to heart, not to mention that the agony of Marcus's death was of such intense degree. It would never have just burnt away as he hoped, but only will burn him to dust. And Katarina…how could she have managed to keep on her feet he had no idea, only that it was clear in her voice and eyes that she was on the brim of falling apart as well.

It was too much for both of them.

They were strong, the best killers of Noxus, and yet utterly reliant on each other now, just to hold themselves, mentally and emotionally, together.

He hated and had no choice but to admit that he would have been broken without her presence.

He wondered endlessly if it was just so for her as well.

* * *

All of them, eventually, found some way to distract themselves from the overwhelming grief and go on with life again. There was no time for them to linger, for already, after only few days of mourning, it was plain that the mansion and their savings were both falling into a state of desolation. And the city-state of Noxus was at war, which called for the services of every man and woman with a Noxian name.

With her flowering fairness and cunning mind, Cassiopeia quickly took up the mask of a beautiful Noxian ambassador and the role of a political spy. Men have always craved her, the beauty of the Du Couteau household, ever since the first curves started to apprehend her figure; now she knew how to wield it like a weapon and fight on a front line unique to her kind. It was not difficult for her, but instead for Katarina to consent; it took both her pleas and Talon's to let her sister finally soften and nod her head, though ever since then he could see that there was a shade of worry in her eyes.

The young girl with auburn hair, who needed her protection, was now gone. Rarely did they see each other after Cassiopeia's new occupation, for she spent most of her time deep in foreign territory, and her letters were few and far apart. He knew how she was deeply troubled with the fact that her younger sister, once the fragile porcelain rose of the family, has blossomed into a fully thorned flower. It was like losing a person of the past, he knew, just like how he felt when his eyes met with those emerald fires that no longer burnt with child-like passion but mature restraint.

They all had to grow up some time.

After a lengthy debate of whether they should put their skills for hiring like mercenaries or join the army, the two assassins eventually went with the latter option; it meant steady income and offering their strength to Noxus, instead of lurking in shadows, killing for the petty desires of politicians and the wealthy.

It was fairly obvious that fighters of their type did not cooperate well in teams, so instead, a week after reporting to their battalion, they were pulled out of frontal confrontation with the enemies. Missions were assigned for them to move in the dead of the night, taking the lives of commanders, generals, any person of enemy importance, or eavesdropping on councils and war meetings to bring back information.

They never declined a mission and never failed one, much like the old times when it was still Marcus giving them.

During the day, while heavily armored men clashed endlessly at each other beneath the scalding sun, they would spend time in the huge but empty barracks, resting, practicing, training, with only the company of the other. And when their comrades, or whoever was left of them, began to return, they would quietly slip out and seek their targets beneath a veil of tender moonlight, avoiding any unnecessary social interaction, pointed stares or painful questioning. This became their new daily ritual, and he admitted that it was a much more productive one than having them both sit around and sulk all day or throw knives at each other.

That did not mean they ceased to spar, though. If anything, their sparring frequency only increased, as there were no wooden dummies to practice with in the barracks and chucking knives at the wall was a waste of time. And what's more than that…was that he actually started to interact with her in the form of words that was not commands. They started _conversing_ with each other, using voice to communicate thoughts that never before they would have shown, allowing the other to come closer and understand deeper with every passing day. It was strange and new to him. To not stay silent as a shadow would but to speak and share, giving out all his secrets that he never intended reveal—though he told Katarina them anyways.

In these days when still the darkness of a certain loss hung over them and smiling was an extinct gesture, his voice seemed to be able to return it to her face, slightly curving the edges of her lips, forming a tight and impossibly stiff expression—but was definitely there. And yes, he was glad. Some part of him that he once thought was long dead came back to life, and a quiet joy sprawled itself slowly across him, for he saw that she was recovering.

She was coming back to life, mending herself bit by bit, standing back up from midst the ashes.

Soon, he hoped desperately, soon she will have recovered into that wild and passionate young girl of his memories, the red-haired girl with a spiky nature and unrestrained emotions that she wore on her sleeve, the girl whom he could have teased and taunted easily instead of this deadly assassin that stood before him whom he had mixed feelings directed towards. Soon it can all be just as years before, -soon all will be fine.

Being an experienced liar, this time he did not even manage to fool himself.

There can be no going back because, even if she did become again the outgoing figure of his past, he can never treat her like how he once did. Their relationship is just so tangled up and confusing and _wrong_ that he can't seem to recall a time when things were still simple between them, when Katarina was a sister to him and nothing more.

She never could be that again.

The past was the past, and the past is nothing but ashes and dust.

So all that he truly dared long for was that, while in the cold and harsh barracks that laid on the edge of war, she would stay strong and unbroken, holding on whatever the reality threw in her face, and kept the smile, even if it was so rigid that it pained him to watch her form it, alive. Midst the bloodshed and danger that was part of their daily routine, that was all he dared to hope for.

That she would stay alive, instead of simply breathing. _Alive_.

* * *

Every time when foul word came, he thought she was going to break this time. When her father went missing. When he was proclaimed dead. When Cassiopeia left. But every time she pushed through, with her incredible stubbornness, and though she was bruised and bloody and scarred after every occasion, somehow she did not break.

This time when the message came he thought it too, and he was the one to deliver it.

It was dusk when he marched through rows and rows of other soldiers to reach her with it, ignoring every suspicious or curious stare delivered towards them, and put the creamy envelope, wax seal already broken, into her hands. Watching her read it was like torture; every second was long, too long, as he waited for whatever will occur next.

She read through the letter with a perfectly stoic expression. After her eyes traced the letters to the bottom of the page it went back and did it again, just to double check, and then she finally putted the paper down though the mask of hard endurance kept on.

'A snake, they say? Some Freljordian's doing?'

He nodded, reaching out for the notice in her hand, but she retracted her arm and crumpled the paper into a wrinkled ball, dropped it, stepped on it, then gave a nearly imperceptible snort.

'Suits her.'

With that she turned, fastened the last of her knife-belts to her waist, and strode out. He slightly raised an eyebrow at that, but made no further comment, stooping down to pick up the letter and quickly followed out.

It was a night of heavy work. They had to hit three places for four individual missions, each having to be carried out during a specific hour in the darkness. Though none of them were especially difficult, the night was wasted in moving around to attend to all of them, and he had no chance to even discuss the message with her until they were back. And then they had to face morning hours with their other comrades, and new orders came frequently to them before noon, forcing him to postpone his thoughts to the afternoon of the next day when they usually enjoyed the company of rest.

It didn't quite matter though. They couldn't sleep anyways. He could see she was not in the mood for conversation either, and made no attempts to press at her.

Tedious hours passed in nothing but a heavy silence. Dusk was not far from arriving once more when he heard her footsteps from behind, soft as a feline's and light as the wind. Soon she walked in front of him, and the look in her eyes made his heart tighten slightly. It was a glassy look, a lifeless look, with no vigor burning inside it.

He parted his lips in attempt to say something comforting, but no words came out.

She walked closer, expression unreadable behind a curtain of scarlet hair that fell in front of her face, and for the first time he seemed to realize how…fragile she was, despite the spikes she clad herself in, she was tender and delicate and _breakable_. And she will be broken, truly, this time.

Unless…

He stifled a gasp when she, suddenly, just walked up and clung to him, arms wrapping around his neck, resting her forehead in the slight depression of his collarbones. Unsure what it meant or what to do, he tentatively reached out but paused the motion in mid-air and took his hand back, cursing inwardly for what he almost did. She did not react even the slightest.

The sound of suppressed sniffing and hiccupping sobs had him wide-eyed.

She was _crying_.

Her shoulders, slightly trembling, and the warm fluid slowly streaming down his skin confirmed it. Katarina, the Sinister Blade of Noxus, was crying…to him.

He was sure that she would have wept before, at some point in her life, but never did she do it in front of his eyes. Or anybody's, in general. She _hated_ exposing or even suggesting her weakness to others, and always the Katarina she showed to the world was strong, ruthless and merciless. A killer. Someone who could support or protect others instead of needing to be protected.

Never the emotionally broken girl he was facing.

Never so young and so fragile.

Never so _human_.

* * *

By dusk she was done, leaving no trace of what just happened except for her puffy eyes and lashes that still held some droplets on it. They went on to finish a tasteless dinner, head off for nightly missions, and return before dawn, just as usual.

Not a word has exchanged between them and it was never bought up by either again.

* * *

If things were different, could they have loved each other?

Of the many questions which aroused during their conversations, this was one of the few that he could find no answer to. Katarina sank into a deep musing right after she asked as well, as if contemplating on her own thoughts along with him.

Could they have been lovers?

If he was not a boy from the slums, but someone of high birth just like her, who was worthy and fitting to be matched with a Du Couteau.

If they were not assassins who were taught to hide their emotions and never show, taught to freeze their hearts and live only to kill.

If Marcus Du Couteau was still here, instead of leaving behind the burdens that they had to bear in his place.

If he was not the only person whom she had bickered with, fought with, sparred with, exposed all her weaknesses to, relied her life countless times upon.

If he wasn't Talon _Du Couteau_ , her _brother_. Adoptive, but her brother nonetheless.

If he still remembered how to love.

If…

'Yeah, I think we might have.' She quietly answered her own question after a pause that was growing increasingly and extremely uncomfortable, and then went back to sharpening her already razor-sharp daggers, allowing the purr of metal over metal fill in their silence.

The subject, seemingly, dropped.

He tilted his head slightly, just so that he could see the still youthful profile of her, with strands of crimson draped in front of her turquoise irises, a smooth scar embedded perfectly through her eye, giving her a dangerous beauty instead of a grotesque one. For a second he thought he had the answer, but it just slipped from his mind, and he allowed it to be gone.

Things didn't need to be different.

He was already in love with her as it was.

* * *

It was a horrible scene, having her die in front of his eyes. Her hair was the same shade of the liquid that flowed from her body, damaged in a way that he knew there was no hope with one look, and she seemed to be fading into that pool of blood that was already forming beneath her.

He wanted so desperately to help her, somehow, some way, it must be possible. But with a light shake of the head she had refused, the light in her emeralds already dimming with unbelievable speed.

'You have better things to do than wasting your time with me, Talon.' She whispered, her voice hoarse and nearly inaudible, but he heard, 'go on, fight, they need you. Do as a soldier should. Take your blades and go kill some Demacians, that ought to lighten me up.'

Her weak attempt of a joke made him force a smile.

'I will,' he promised, and laid her head down slowly and carefully, but did not move a single step. For a moment he felt four again: helpless and vulnerable, unable to choose a correct way to go for every single road led to a dead end. He felt like a lost child, with no idea how to cope with life as it was.

Because she was dying.

Her body was twisted into a shape that could only be accomplished by who knows how many broken bones. The gaping wound that sliced her abdomen open was horrid, breaking through skin and muscle and whatever that lies under them, revealing traces of the pale bones beneath. She was fatally wounded, as she herself, a trained assassin, knew without doubt. And so did he.

No matter which path he choose to walk, she could not be saved.

* * *

He watched, in a near heartless way, as the Du Couteau mansion went up in flames.

Orange and yellow colors danced under the starless sky, reflecting in his eyes, and consuming all that was in its path. Sparks leaped from within the raging fire and some fell on him, burning slightly the scarred-covered skin, or leaving deep marks on his clothing, but he did not back away.

Instead he just watched, in a queer detached manner that he failed to explain himself, but it felt like he had no emotions towards this building. He should have. He must have some kind of tie to it, but whatever pain he should be enduring was only replaced by an eerie numbness.

Cassiopeia, now a beastly woman with a serpentine tail that replaced her legs, slithered up beside him completely soundless. He did not avert his gaze, and she did not seem to mind. Instead, both just watched in silence as their home, the only one ever known to them both, became consumed in fire.

It was like a funeral shroud.

He flinched inwardly at the thought. Yes, a funeral shroud, a perfect one for her. One that she deserved much more than just a pile of half-moist logs that sent up more smoke than fire. If she deserved to die anywhere, it should be here, where so many memories lied and pasts settled and were forgotten. Instead her mangled, broken body was laid upon a huge, crudely-made bonfire and lit, and behind layers and layers of smoke she was gone.

He should have brought her back here.

But she…she would not have preferred it so. Pressing his lips into a tight line Talon contemplated on the fact silently, just as she would have. She did, with her dying breath, order him in the tone of a superior to leave. That instead of having him waste his time with somebody on death's doorstep, she would have let him to dance more on the battlegrounds, saving more lives that still could be saved. It was the strange way of compassion that they, being assassins, understood. Mourning over the dead helps nothing. Getting out there with a knife in hand does.

But still.

He couldn't forgive himself. The shadow was supposed to follow the blade, a step behind her, ready to step in whenever she had the need. He was supposed to be there and shield her from harm, as a servant, as a brother, as a…as a lover, if he could be considered so. But he failed to, and she was killed. Not even cleanly; the wound was deep and messy but did not touch fatal weaknesses, and she would have endured endless torture to finally meet death's embrace.

He could have at least, mercifully, given her an easier death with one slit of his armblade, but her refused to think that there was no other way but to let her die. And in truth, he accomplished nothing: not saving her life, not ending her pain, not offering more of his skills and strength for his comrades. He just did the most foolish thing he could have done: mourn.

'You did what you could.' As if reading his mind, the strange, hollow female voice rang through the night air. He shuddered slightly, recalling how Cassiopeia always was a prodigy on reading people, but it was still unnerving when it happened.

'It was not enough' was his reply.

If only he arrived at her side a second before she would have been saved. If only he made the hard decision and did what was needed she would not have been through pain. If only he was slightly more insistent she would have been back here, receiving a burial proper to someone of her status and origin. But he failed to do all these things. He did nothing.

Katarina Du Couteau is now nothing but ashes and dust, dissipated in the cold winds of winter, traces gone, never returning.

She was dead.

With the same numbness he thought through all these things, surprisingly not in agony. It was as if nothing could rouse his anger or sadness anymore. Nothing but a blunt numbness was left, one that he felt in place of all the emotions that should be there but aren't.

He felt dead.

He felt like his life was burned away with her disappearance, unable to be restored, unable to recover.

He was a killing machine. And now he is broken beyond repair.

* * *

But even if he tried to stop and look back into the years where she was still there, time went on in its usual pace, forever unmoved and merciless.

The mansion was wiped clean off the map, leaving nothing but a pile of charred wood, stone blocks and dark ash in its place. Cassiopeia contacted a 'friend' in Noxus to fix up a temporary residence for Talon until something could be rebuilt out of the ruins, though he declined and left again to report back to the army. Without insisting, she left too, using her new and more poisonous skills elsewhere.

And then, after months, the warm breeze of spring will scatter what ashes the storms of winter hasn't, leaving the patch of land where once all their memories stood bare. He will not be there to witness all this; out in the fields with his blades and skills he will kill, endlessly, day after day, until at some time all evidence of the Talon that once lived inside him would be washed away by blood, and he will not die. Through some way Cassiopeia will be doing a similar thing, to bleach away the sadness and hollows that the red-haired girl left behind, and to move on.

And everything will continue.

One day she will be forgotten. He will cease to live but continue to breathe and kill, becoming something unnamable but will exist. Noxus will still stand for years and years to come, or it will be conquered and given a new name. The mansion of Du Couteau's will be rebuilt.

Everything will be fine, except that she will never return.

But she is of the past; he knew and tried to convince himself endlessly. She is somebody of a period of time he can never re-visit, a part of shadows that haunt his dreams, a part of mixed emotions blown by the wind.

Perhaps this would be best for them, for both of them, that she was just gone, left, just like that. That they will never be together since they never have. That how he will memorize every minute detail of the times they have spent with each other, all the bittersweet moments that he will forever cherish, all of the beautiful nightmare that he dreamt for years and years and is now finally awoken from.

Perhaps it would be the best, or the only end that they could have come to, was for the fiery hair and emerald eyes to fade into nothing but an irreplaceable section of his past, a past that he won't ever be able to come back to.

And all will, eventually, fall into its own place. And all will go on.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.


End file.
